


lotophagus

by antithestral



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU, DCU (Comics), Green Lantern (Comics)
Genre: ANGST. OH THE FUCKING ANGST., Aliens Made Them Do It, Consent Issues, M/M, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-01-20 20:33:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18532642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antithestral/pseuds/antithestral
Summary: Bruce and Hal get sex-pollened in space, Jason continues to be an absolutely priceless asshole, and Dick would very much please like a vacation from his entire goddamn family.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> yeah this one's kind of a bad mess. i just want to get it out the drafts folder? so. uh. sorry about that.

“I think I’ve figured out the problem,” Bruce said, when he glimpsed Hal’s reflection in the hull of the crash-landed Javelin. He had evidently left off wearing the Lantern uniform entirely--Hal was in his ratty old flight suit instead, and to make matters worse, had decided to strip the top half off, and tie it around his waist, like something out of a bad mechanic porno.

His bare chest was faintly sheened with sweat: in the alien planet’s orange-red sunlight, he almost seemed to glow.

Bruce forced himself to focus on the Javelin. “It's the external inertial dampeners. They've locked in, and unless we can--”

“Is that my shirt?” Hal sounded a little choked.

Bruce looked down at himself. Now that he was looking for it, he could see the faint impression over the chest that read USAF. The t-shirt was old and had been beaten into an almost silk-like softness from a hundred washes; on Hal, it would have been loose but comfortable. On Bruce, however, it was about three sizes too small--which was still, of course, better than wearing the Batsuit, considering the weather on this planet, while trying to play mechanic to a grounded hyperspace-capable starship.

“I didn't realize it was yours,” Bruce said, and curled one hand around the hem, lifting it about half an inch. “Want it back?”

“No!” Hal’s eyes seemed to have gotten stuck on his hand. Stuck on the bare patch of skin just above his waistband actually.

“Okay,” Bruce said carefully. “That was actually rhetorical.” He turned back to the Javelin, to re-assess the damage to the inertia shocks. Maybe they could leverage-- Suddenly, the room pitched sharply to the left, the ground rolling beneath his feet like the aftershocks of an earthquake, and Bruce staggered blindly.

Strong arms caught him before he hit the ground. Hal grunted with the effort of keeping him steady. “Easy,” he was saying. One of his hands had slipped under the t-shirt, at the small of his back. There was a warm hand stroking the skin there. “Easy, Bruce.”

Bruce wanted to jerk away.

Bruce wanted to remain standing.

“When was the last time you ate something?” Jordan was asking. He moved them to the Jav, so they were leaning against the cool metal of the hull. “Or drank some water?”

Bruce sighed. “When was the last time we were on Earth?”

“Last t-- You haven't eaten anything in fifty-six _hours?!”_

“There was some food on board the Javelin.”

“That box of army rations?! You _ate_ that?!!”

Bruce angled a glare at him. At the two of him. Why were there two Hals holding him up? “Would you have preferred that I _starve_?” Bruce demanded left-Hal. “Oh, wait, of course _you_ would.”

“I could drop you, smart-ass.” Right-Hal tugged a flask out from a pocket of his flight suit, flipped open the top and held it to Bruce's mouth. “Go on. Drink up.”

“Mmmfgh.”

“Don't be a baby. You need the electrolytes and you're fucking heavy.”

Bruce drank. The liquid in the flask wasn't water at all, but something richer, sweeter, with the smoothness of honey, but lighter than air. It slid down his throat, erasing the parched ache of his body, waves of cold rippling through his chest like a tangible thing. When he pulled away, he realized he had drained the flask dry.

Hal was still holding him.

“Better?” His voice was soft. His eyes were soft.

“Better,” Bruce replied. His voice came quieter than he had expected. Slowly, he straightened up. He was taller than Hal, if only by the barest of margins, but that arm stayed around him, cradling Bruce against that naked, golden chest. It didn't occur to either of them, that that was a strange thing.

“You should come inside,” Hal said. “Eat something. Rest. We can fix the Javelin tomorrow.”

They had already been on-planet two days longer than intended. What should have been a simple hello-welcome-to-the-rest-of-the-Universe meet and greet, except the Javelin’s landing gear had malfunctioned and marooned them at the ass-end of the galactic sector.

Or, more specifically, it had marooned Bruce. Hal could've left any time he liked, and Bruce was extremely aware that Hal’s staying behind on Lotophagus was… incredibly kind of him.

“Come on,” Hal said. Bruce realized he had been staring at Hal for a while now. “Let's get you some dinner and a bed. We’ll figure the rest out together. You gotta taste their food, man, they’ve got this one fruit thing, and they make everything out of it, pie and dumplings and stuffing and wine, it’ll change your whole _life…”_

* * *

 

 

He had expected some sort of dining pavilion, possibly an open-air eating area in the presidential palace. What Bruce didn't expect was for Hal to guide him back to their ambassadorial quarters, to the balcony where a small feast had been laid out. There was small earthenware bowls of what looked like fish eggs, tiny luminescent globules in shades of purple and blue. Steam rose in lazy spirals from bowls of thick, golden soup, that smelled very much like garlic and butter, and another plate had slices of a starchy, pale white bread, stuffed with meat and nuts and some kind of fruit. The fruit, in fact, featured prominently everywhere. It was bright orange, the color of ripe papaya, and smelled unbearably good. An enormous bowl of fruit slices had been placed in the middle of the table, and two thin, tall,

milk-glass bottles with stoppered tops, of wine distilled from the same fruit.

There was no cutlery, or serving plates. The Lotophagii believed in communal eating; everyone ate directly from the platters with their hands. Bruce dug in hungrily, and Hal commandeered one of the wine bottles, sipping quietly, staring out at the setting sun. The fields to the west hung heavy with fruit, a blaze of purple leaves and orange fruit, stretching all the way to the horizon.

“It's good, isn't it?”

Bruce looked up. Hal's voice seemed to have come from a long distance. He was still in his flight suit. Still half-naked. The sky was a deep, bloody red behind him, silhouetting that gorgeous body.

“What?” Bruce asked numbly. He could see the shine of Hal’s bottom lip, wet with wine. It would taste sweet.

“The fruit thing,” Hal said. “Haven't been able to stop eating it since we got here.”

“It is,” Bruce said. “Want some?”

“Sure.” He made no move towards the table though, so Bruce got up instead, a wedge of fruit in his hand.

He touched Hal’s mouth, tapped his chin. Fed the slice into that mouth. What was he doing? What was…

There was a trail of juice trickling down his chin. Bruce moved in closer. Licked it off. Salt. He could taste the salt of Hal’s skin. Wanted more.

They had shifted closer, at some point. Bruce's hands were sticky with juice, were dragging down Hal’s back, leaving smears on his skin. It was easy to shove the flight suit down, to breathe hotly into the curve of his shoulder. Hal was hard already, and made lovely sounds when Bruce touched him, desperate bitten off sounds, clutched at his shoulders, and shook with his whole body.

“Bruce,” Hal was saying. “Oh god, _Bruce,_ baby,” like he was starved for it, and Bruce said, “Wanted you, wanted to do this for so long, so long,” and Hal’s hands were all over him, slipping under that t-shirt, shoving under his jeans, and he was miles of naked skin and beautifully cut muscle bathed in crimson sunlight, and Bruce couldn't stop kissing him, couldn't stop whispering terrible secrets into that laughing, hungry mouth.

It helped, that Hal didn't seem like he knew how to stop either.

* * *

 

  
  
  


Bruce awoke in the middle of the night, not with a start, but slowly, gradually, drifting through layers of wakefulness. It was warm on Lotophagus even at night, despite the opened windows in their quarters, and the breeze drifting in, icy against his damp skin.

Hal had his back to him. Bruce watched the steady rise and fall of his naked body, with every breath, and realized he had woken up because he was hard. Achingly hard. He shifted closer to Hal, hissed when his cock dragged against the silk-smooth skin of Hal’s back, and then shifted closer, rubbed against him lazily. Hal was fast asleep, and--Bruce reached reached around to check--still soft. But that could be fixed.

He wrapped his hand around that cock, and pumped slowly, timed it to the slow, lazy thrusts against his back. They had fucked, not hours ago. He would be loose still. He would…. God, Bruce just wanted something to fuck. Something around his cock, hot and tight and wet.

He shifted. Touched Hal. Ghosted his fingers along the perineum. His hole was still slick, sticky with lube. Bruce slid in two fingers with shocking ease, and Hal groaned, still asleep, that muscle tightening, resisting. Three fingers, stretching, searching. Hal was shifting, restlessly, and Bruce moved closer, turned him onto his belly. The heat around his fingers was overwhelming. His cock was so hard, leaking, he could feel the thump of arousal in the back of his head. Like wardrums.

He curled his fingers up, and Hal gasped awake, clutching Bruce deeper inside, moaning into the pillow. Bruce could feel his hips twitching, grinding. He wanted to see Hal's cock, wanted to flip him over and swallow his cock down, wanted the sounds that would spill out of his mouth when Hal fucked his throat, wanted---

Bruce shuddered, adjusted, sank his cock past the red, swollen rim of his hole, felt the bone-deep shake of the body underneath him.

They both exhaled as he drove in deep, hilted his cock in all that febrile welcoming heat. Bruce’s forehead dropped to Hal’s shoulder, his hands spasming around his hips. And then he began to move. Began to-- There wasn't any grace to it. No style, no artful attention. He was just… fucking Hal. Using him, like a cocksleeve, jackhammering his thrusts, bright stars dancing behind his eyes. Hal was crying out, fists curling into the sheets, and Bruce couldn't tell if it was pleasure or pain, couldn't tell, didn't really care, as long as that beautiful hole kept tightening around his cock hungrily, didn't _care_ if it was hurting him, didn't---

Bruce didn't know when his hands reached around Hal’s throat, wrapped around without any pressure, pulled him up, off the mattress, so Hal had no leverage, no grip, and Bruce was saying terrible things into ears, awful things, _is this what you wanted? is this what you wanted me to do? did you want me fuck you in front of the league? fuck you in front of barry and ollie and all your precious lanterns? show them how you cry on my cock? show them what a slut you are for me?_ and “Bruce,” Hal kept saying, “Bruce, Bruce oh god,” like a prayer, and Bruce said _you're mine, you're mine, never letting you go, mine mine--_ and that muscle tightened like a vise around his cock, and Hal was crying out and trembling, and Bruce came so hard it was a miracle he didn't black out.

* * *

 

  
  


_Bruce woke up again, suddenly, with a jolt. Hal was draped over him. The sun was streaming in through the windows._

_There was something he was supposed to be doing right now, wasn't there? It was morning. The fourth morning, or was it the fifth? There was something important…_

_“Hal. Hal, wake up.”_

_Hal woke slower. Blinked. His eyelashes were absurdly long, casting deep shadows against those sharp cheekbones. “Baby,” he said, and his mouth curved into a hungry little smile. A dark frisson of desire shot through Bruce. “You're up.”_

_“Hal. Listen to me.” His mouth felt thick. Clumsy. “Wasn't there something we were supposed to do?”_

_Hal was touching his chest. Was mapping his ribs, rubbing at a long thick scar that ripped down his side. “Mm?”_

_“Hal. What are you…”_

_That hand had gone lower. Hal was rubbing his thigh. Squeezing. “I want to fuck you. Can I… I want to…”_

_He could feel Hal’s cock, thickening slowly, could feel Hal grinding it lazily on his hip. “Hal. This is… I think it's important.”_

_“You know what's important,” Hal murmured, and then kissed the corner of his mouth, and licked apart his lips, and he was flooded with the taste of something sweet and rich and impossibly airy, like drinking in light, and he thought of nothing else._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i know it's all filler it had to be done my b ,_,

Bruce floated into awareness again.

Floated quite literally, too, because he was in a pool of some kind, a deep sunken tub, set into the balcony of their quarters. All four moons of Lotophagus had risen in the sky, bathing the world in pale, wavering gold.

There was a tray to his right, with an empty bottle and platter thick with the skin of the fruit and a mess of seed and juice. He didn't remember eating it. Didn't remember drinking.

Hal was nowhere to be seen. That was okay. He would come back soon.

He always did.

_For a moment his mind caught on that: He always did? How long had Bruce been here? The days had blurred together, into a fog of sleeping and eating and bathing and fucking, always fucking, he was always cranked for jt, always hungry for it, for Hal’s hands, for his mouth, for his beautiful body._

_How long had they been there?_

He swirled his finger through the empty platter, without thinking about it, and licked it clean. Sweetness coated his mouth and the world turned bright again. He tipped his head back over the lip of the pool. He needed Hal.

_Needed…_

He could hear someone talking. Strange… He hadn't heard anyone speak for a while…

“Jesus Christ, he’s on fucking _vacation?_ That son of a bitch, I’m going to skewer him _alive—_ ”

Bruce felt something thump softly near his head, like someone was kneeling on the floor, by the edge of the tub. There was a hand on his naked shoulder, broad, gloved in cool leather.

“Bruce,” said a soft voice. “Bruce, wake up.” A pause. “What the hell…”

“What's wrong with him?”

“I don't— _Bruce.”_ Shaking him harder. Bruce thought about opening his eyes. No. Closed. Closed was better. He wanted to sleep. Wanted to fuck.

He clamped his hand around that wrist and _wrenched_. There was an enormous splash, and then a weight settling over his chest, over his abs and his groin, and Bruce twisted his hands in that soft, silken hair. “Fuck,” he hissed, clamping another hand over slim hips, driving against the hard, long body crushed to his chest.

Someone was laughing from far away.

“BRUCE!” Something slapped his face, and Bruce groaned with it, rutted up a little harder.

“Oh my sweet baby Jesus, where’s my motherfucking camera when I need it,” that distant, laughing voice was saying, and the closer voice said, “Bruce, you asshole, _wake UP!”_

Something crashed into his face, and pain slammed him, like diving headfirst into a wall of ice. Bruce jolted up, eyes flying open.

_Dick._

The horror followed sharply on its heels.

_Oh god._

“Aw, Dickie, look, Daddy _does_ love you. Loves you so _much._ Ain't that sweet.”

“Shut _up,”_ Dick growled, but he was looking at Bruce.

“Maybe you need to hit him again,” said that voice gleefully, and _Jason,_ that was _Jason,_ and Bruce could see Dick’s arm was drawing back again.

“Try it,” Bruce growled, “and I’ll slice your arm off.”

“Ohthankgod,” Dick whispered and then scrambled back to the other edge of the tub, dripping wet, the leather of his suit gleaming like it had been oiled. “You, uh…. You were kinda out of it, just then.” His eyes were huge, and more than a little panicked.

Bruce was suddenly, hideously aware of how still the water was and how bright the moonlight was and how Jason was standing pretty much directly above him and how he was still… hard.

“Get out. I’ll follow in a minute.”

“Only a minute?” Jason murmured. “Gee, poor Selina,” and then cackled in delight when Bruce hurled the empty bottle at his head—and missed.

* * *

  
  
  


When Bruce re-entered what functioned as the outer room of their quarters, he had his earlier clothes back on again, the jeans and Hal’s Air Force Academy t-shirt.

Starfire entered the room through the other door, pretended not to do a double-take when she saw Bruce wearing something other than the Batsuit—and then moved aside to let Hal in, who was back in his Lantern uniform, and apparently unwilling to meet Bruce's eyes.

Well, that was expected.

Something tightened in his chest.

Bruce looked away. Jason was investigating a fresh platter of fruit and drink, left by the servants, curiously. “Is this it?” he asked no one in particular. “What's it do? Get you super-high?”

But of course, he was really just asking Bruce.

“It induces a sense of euphoria, and… some degree of apathy. It becomes… Once you are under the influence, it becomes difficult to remember anything else. Difficult to care about anything else.” _Christ_ , he had forgotten about the boys. Damian and Alfred, Gotham and the League. “Koriand’r,” he said quietly, “I didn't expect to see you here.”

“I’m—I didn't mean to intrude,” she replied carefully. It was strange to see her hesitant. “But Dick approached me, because of my old ship. He was worried about you.”

“Kory gave us a ride here, Bruce,” Dick interrupted. “That's all.”

“Well, maybe that's all in _your_ case, Dickiebird,” Jason murmured, with a savage grin, and then added, “Oh, wait, I forgot, it _isn't_ —”

“Jason.” Koriand’r had begun to glow dangerously.

Hal continued to look sort of stunned by… everything, like Kory had smacked him upside the head, full strength. Hell, maybe she had.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m shutting up,” Jason rolled his eyes, and turned towards the door. “Look, can we blow this joint? I thought this was going to be a fun jailbreak-y shoot-em-up, not Bruce getting his drunk ass stranded in space Tijuana.”

It had been a smooth, quick motion, and if Bruce hadn't learned to watch for it, he would've missed it entirely.

“Put it back,” he growled.

Dick turned to him, puzzled. “Put what back?”

Bruce ignored him. “Jason,” he snapped, and saw Jason’s shoulders hunch up and tense.

His face was hard when he turned around. “Fuck you, old man. Not the boss of me anymore, remember?”

“You don't want that stuff.”

“You don't know what the fuck I want.” There was a wildness in his eyes. A hunger. The need to forget. How well Bruce understood.

“I _forgot_ you. Dick. Damian. I forgot Alfred. _Everyone_.”

Jason sneered. “You’ve never had a hard time forgetting me.”

Dick’s hand touched Jason. Just his shoulder. Just his hand. So light he wouldn't even have felt it through the armor, but Jason unstrung like someone had flicked a switch.

“Oh, _fuck_ this family.” He yanked out the bottle out of his inner jacket pocket, slammed it back onto the table, and then stormed out of the room.

Dick watched him leave, and then turned to Bruce, irritated. “Was that necessary?”

“What it would've done to him…” Bruce gritted his jaw, and chanced a look at Hal. There was a ring of purpling bruises around his neck, in the shape of his fingers. Heat bloomed under his skin, despite everything. _Bruce_ had done that. Bruce had _hurt_ him. Goddamn, but he was a piece of shit.

Hal looked up, sharply, like he could feel the weight of Bruce's gaze, and Bruce looked away. “Yes. Jason can be angry at me, but that was worth it.”

“Fine. I don't even— Whatever.” Dick left.

“Well,” Hal commented brightly, rocking on his heels, “this is awkward.”

Bruce sighed. “Thank you, Lantern.”

“I’m just saying, Thanksgiving must be a hell of a night, at the Manor.”

_Come with me and find out,_ was what Bruce wanted to say, but what the hell would Hal ever want with him, after… After what he had done. _Come with me,_ he wanted to say. _Stay with me. Stay._

Pathetic.

He turned to Starfire. “Koriand’r. I’m sure neither of the boys have remembered to do this, so: Thank you. I owe you a debt.”

“Bruce, of course not.” She watched him curiously. “Since this was an ambassadorial mission, I assume you’ll want to speak with the local diplomats before taking your leave?”

Bruce glanced at Hal, who nodded. “I’ll take care of it. You still need to figure out how to fix the Javelin.”

Oh. Right.

Something important he was supposed to do.

Hal turned around and walked out of the room, and Bruce couldn't shake that awful feeling off, like the most important thing to do, he had somehow managed to fuck up entirely.

Well. What else was new.

* * *

  
  
  


The trip back was quiet. Bruce didn't think he would need rest after doing absolutely nothing all week—that's how long they had been on Lotophagus, a whole _week,_ that Bruce could barely recall—but apparently doing nothing took a lot out of you.

He found an empty bunk in the back of Starfire’s ship, and crashed hard. He woke at some point, and found someone had draped a blanket over him.

Dick, he figured.

The other options were… Jason. Hal.

Illogical.

It had to have been Dick.

He was asleep once more, before he knew it, and missed entirely the flash of bright green by his door.


End file.
